Bottled Dreams

Standing in front of the mirror, I look for the man that I once was. Am I still him, or merely, a shadow that haunts his memory. The shell of him is thin, A mere wafer, Lack of substance, void of purpose, Soulless within. A single thread is all he has left, Though slender is his grasp. What become of him, his hopes, his dreams, The aspirations of a mortal man, Drowned in the pity of empty glasses, Smothered in the arms of bottled beauties, With liquid caresses, that comfort, console, envelops, My escape, such a soluble solution, My thoughts of Me, I have become defunked, For souls expressions, Are only dreams of a drunk. Clement Hardy.